The Cyrano Factor
by Medievalchic
Summary: For Buffy's eighteenth birthday, Angel gives her a book of poetry. This is the story of a book that meant something and a message written inside that meant less than it appeared. A Spuffy story. Beta'd by Sunnydalesis and flootzavut. Some dialogue taken from Angel and Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
1. Birthday Present

January 1999

The door of an upper bedroom in the old Crawford mansion gave a satisfying slam as Angel vented his frustration on the house that had become his tomb. Five thousand square feet of living space had failed to turn up anything that might qualify as an adequate birthday present for the girl who was his salvation. The vampire clutched at the banister, his fingers digging deep scratches in the wood railing as he brooded over the cold and empty great room.

He couldn't go out and shop for an appropriate gift. It would be several more hours before sundown, and Buffy would be here by then. Not for the first time since his return from Hell, Angel questioned his decision to settle in this particular property. Why had he chosen a place so far from the nearest sewer access? He tried to think back to his reasoning last year. He supposed that in his soulless state he had been less concerned about practicality than about the number of rooms in which he could have his way with Drusilla.

He sighed. This really wouldn't have been a problem if he had just remembered Buffy's birthday a few days earlier. He would have had plenty of time to find something. But when you had been undead for two whole centuries, you tended to forget about little things like birthdays that seemed so important in a human's frail, short life.

 _Spike never forgot_ , a treacherous little voice in his head reminded him. The younger vampire may not have celebrated birthdays, but he had always made a big event of his anniversary with Drusilla. Every year on the date of his siring, he would pamper the madwoman with rose petal baths and sensual massages. These gestures would be followed by a showering of expensive stolen dresses and fine jewelry, liberally supplemented with the choicest victims to sate her hunger.

However, romance had never been a big part of Angel's life. Of course, he understood the basics. After all, the only human holiday he had ever bothered to celebrate was Valentine's Day. But his observance of it had always been about depraved displays meant to mock the romantic gestures of human couples. And his relationship with Darla had never been more than mutual lust. The two had always abandoned one another whenever danger had reared its ugly head.

No. Human or vampire, soulless or soulful, Angel had never found a woman worth the effort of romancing until Buffy had come along.

Now his history of perverting romantic gestures had left him with few options for giving the love of his life a meaningful gift. He couldn't give her chocolates. He didn't keep any at the mansion. Besides, he needed something that spoke to their relationship. Roses were also out of the question. Angel shuddered as he remembered the black-ribboned bouquet he had left on her doorstep last year. Before his soulless stint, he might have considered drawing her a picture. He had some skill with a pencil and he'd always been an artist at heart. But now Buffy had seen the dark side of his artistry-how it influenced his kills. And she had probably received enough of his sketches to last her a lifetime.

Frustrated, Angel pushed away from the banister and stomped resolutely down the hallway. There had to be something romantic in this house that hadn't been poisoned by the events of last spring. He stopped hesitantly in front of a large set of double doors. He hadn't stepped foot inside the master bedroom since his return, ashamed of the memories of the time he had spent with Dru in its spacious interior. But now Angel had no choice. He had searched every other room in the house.

Slowly he pushed open the doors. The room was even larger than he remembered. The bulk of it was dominated by a huge wrought-iron bed, its sheets still rumpled from hours of lovemaking. Opposite the bed was a heavy fireplace clad in Italian marble. The back of the room curved into a massive bay window, a chaise positioned haphazardly beneath the heavy blackout curtains. To his immediate left was an open door leading to the bathroom. Peering into it, Angel could see that Drusilla's dresses were still scattered on the floor where he'd torn them off her body several months earlier.

Shameful memories threatened to overwhelm him. So much had happened since last May, but here in this room his betrayal of Buffy seemed like only yesterday. Angel retreated back to the threshold, sickened by the reminders of what he had done. But just as he was turning to flee, something caught his eye.

He shuffled reluctantly toward the fireplace and picked up the small familiar volume sitting on the mantle.

 _Sonnets from the Portuguese_ by Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

As he fingered the book's yellowed pages, an idea began to take shape in Angel's head. Poetry was romantic, wasn't it? Most girls seemed to love it. Or at least, they loved men who loved it. Poetry made men seem mysterious and sensitive and deep. When they had first met, Buffy had thought those things about him. Maybe if he gave her something like this, Angel could recapture some of those feelings that had been lost on her last birthday.

He hesitated for a moment. Technically, this little book had been tainted by his time as Angelus just as much as bouquets of roses. But Buffy didn't know that. He flipped through the pages and frowned. The original owner had written on several pages, underlining verses and writing comments in the margins. He'd even written some short verses of his own.

Clearly, Angel was going to have to personalize the book in some way. But how? He wandered over to the bed and sat on it, reaching for the pen he knew he would find in the side table drawer.

He could write something of his own on the first page. But would Buffy notice the difference in handwriting? He didn't think so. To his eyes, his own eighteenth-century script differed significantly from the nineteenth century scrawl in the margins, but he doubted Buffy would see the difference. It would probably all look equally sophisticated to a Valley Girl like her.

But what to write?

Angel's hand remained poised over the book, his brain struggling to come up with something special. "Happy Birthday" and "I Love You" seemed too generic. He could write her a note, but words didn't come easily to him. He needed something short and pithy. Something powerful.

Angel's eyes wandered about the room as he considered his options. Once again, something small caught his attention, sitting on the chaise across the room. It was a box of sweethearts, probably one of Spike's attempts to bribe Drusilla to come back to him. Dru had shared the runt's predilection for human food but tended to prefer sweet things to spicy ones. He picked up the box and spilled the contents across the floor.

"Be Mine." No, too possessive.

"Hug Me." Too needy.

"You're Fine." Underwhelming.

"Moonbeam." Ridiculous.

"Always."

Angel paused. That had a nice ring to it.

He smiled and added the word to the title page with a flourish. Now all he had to do was find something to wrap the book in before Buffy stopped by during nightly patrol. He left the room in light spirits. The poetry book was a good idea. He just knew it. After all, it had worked once before…


	2. Subway Treasure

October 1977

The creaky, dilapidated car of the Number Six train came to a screeching halt in Grand Central Terminal. Spike jumped off, glad to be freed from the enticing smell of so many human bodies in close quarters. Ordinarily he would get a thrill risking exposure by quietly snacking on one of the commuters in plain sight, but now was not the time for such antics. His current quarry was far too dangerous and considered it her sacred duty to protect the ungrateful masses who used the subway system from predators like himself.

Falling into a casual stroll, Spike maintained a careful distance from the bobbing Afro that was heading confidently towards the subway exit. His target's Slayer senses were honed enough that she would be able to pick up his signature from yards away, but the crowds in the station would mask it as long as he kept far enough behind her. She was dressed for the office, her long brown skirt paired with a bright orange blouse and stilettos. Over her shoulder was slung a large canvas bag that he knew contained well-worn boots, sexy lace-up jeans, and one magnificent leather coat that must have cost her several month's salary.

He'd been tracking Nikki Wood since she first boarded the Number Six at 125th Street. He knew she lived in a rundown walk-up in East Harlem with her Watcher and her scrawny Slayer-spawn. She made the long commute to 42nd Street every morning after dropping the latter off at daycare. Daylight had made it harder to gather information on her work life, but through midnight break-ins and less sun-sensitive minions, he'd managed to gather that she worked as a secretary for some big accounting firm. From all appearances, the broad spent her days making coffee and running reports for bull-necked tossers who made passes at her for eight hours straight. She'd re-emerge every afternoon at five o'clock, already changed into slaying clothes, and vent her frustrations on the baddies who stalked the streets and subways of Manhattan every night.

It didn't surprise Spike that Nikki was forced to put up with such a job. The Council of Wankers never bothered to pay their Slayers. It didn't seem to occur to them that if the birds didn't have to work during the day, they might be more free to slay all night long instead of calling it quits after midnight, as Nikki usually did. Then again, they were the sort of men who had the luxury of not working for profit themselves and probably assumed that Slayers survived on the sacredness of their duty.

Spike watched as Nikki pushed through the turnstiles and headed towards the stairs that would lead her to the world above. A short man in a smart navy suit and shiny briefcase shoved past her in a hurry, adding insult to injury by flinging a slur her way. Her eyes glinted with anger and Spike saw her jaw harden. Good. 8:45 in the morning and someone had already brassed her off. She'd be more than ready to let loose with him when he caught up with her later tonight. He stared after her until she disappeared into the sunlight where he couldn't follow.

He'd been waiting for a challenge like this one for a long time. After the Boxer Rebellion, Spike's path had crossed that of several other Slayers, but none had proven worth taking on. He had learned pretty quickly that while each Chosen One was given the same basic set of strengths, not all Slayers were equal in a fight. Any girl that the Watchers managed to keep under their thumbs would be adequately prepared to battle run-of-the-mill vamps, but were hampered by perfunctory moves and Council brainwashing. They never lasted long.

Nikki was something entirely different. The oldest Slayer on record, she had become a legend in the underworld, the terror of New York City demons. Spike had been hearing rumors of her for years, but had only recently convinced Drusilla to travel Stateside and let him take on the challenge of facing her. It wouldn't be easy, he knew. He'd had his first taste of fighting the Slayer three nights ago in Central Park. The pouring rain had made conditions slippery for both of them, but each had nearly had the other at one point in the evening. She had been magnificent, throwing a stake he'd only caught a split second before it pierced his heart. It had been the most exhilarating fight he'd had in decades.

Spike wandered aimlessly through the lower concourse of the terminal. He had several hours to kill before Nikki got off work. He should find a quiet spot to catch some kip before their big showdown, but he was too energized to sleep. Besides, there was so much to see and do in a station like this one. Grand Central was less a transport hub and more like an underground city in its own right. As long as Spike stayed away from the upper concourse with its high windows, he could wander at will through shops and restaurants and underground bars and tunnels full of aspiring musicians.

He should pick up something for Drusilla while he was here. His beloved princess was comfortably sequestered in an abandoned brownstone on the Lower East Side, sleeping off a small meal of one skinny night guard. He was slightly worried that she wasn't eating properly again, but he'd chained two beefy construction workers to the bed in the adjacent room in case she woke up feeling peckish.

Spike frowned. Dru had grown increasingly agitated over the past few weeks. She tended to get cross with him when he was gone for too long, and lately he had been spending quite a bit of his time in the underground, monitoring the Slayer's movements. If he wasn't careful, the next time he returned to his dark goddess she would have _him_ chained up. And while he didn't particularly mind enduring his sire's punishments, it would put a damper on his plans to kill the Slayer this evening.

 _Definitely shouldn't return empty-handed,_ he decided.

A few hours' efforts landed Spike a strand of pearls and some earrings taken from an underground jewelry store, as well as a solid gold bracelet lifted directly from its former owner's arm. He spotted a potential glassy-eyed companion for Miss Edith as well, but decided to come back for it later. The punk rock look didn't work as well when you were carrying around a dolly in a lace dress . He was about to return to his princess with the loot when he spotted a used bookshop on the far corner of the concourse.

 _Might be worth a look_ , he mused. He'd left most of his library back in London. Drusilla liked to move around so much that he couldn't carry that many books with him, but a handful didn't add much weight to their luggage. He'd been on the lookout for something to read while he was in the States.

Spike strolled jauntily over to the shop and walked through the door. A small bell announced his presence, and old man in a sweater and bow tie turned to greet him. The man's eyes widened slightly as they traveled upward from Spike's ripped jeans to his leather-and-chains vest, black-lined eyes, and bleached hair. The vampire smiled to himself, enjoying the man's nervousness. He'd crafted his look so that even humans who didn't know what he was would automatically recognize him as dangerous.

"How can I help you?" The old man asked with shaky politeness. _Too old too eat_ , Spike reflected. Dru wouldn't find him appetizing either.

"Got any poetry?" he asked instead.

The man pointed him to a small section on the back wall. It wasn't much. Some Milton and Donne, but Spike already had those memorized by heart. Same with Blake and Keats. Dru really liked Dickinson, but he already had several of her works. He would have liked to pick up some Beatniks, but the store didn't seem to carry any. A slim volume caught his eye. He pulled it carefully from the shelf.

 _"_ Ah, _Sonnets from the Portuguese,_ " the old man said as he came up behind him. "My dear sweet Mabel loved that one." He pointed to the opposite wall, which was graced by a small painting of an elderly woman in a floral dress. A small vase of daisies stood on top of the bookshelf beneath the picture.

"Died in '62," he continued. "We were together for sixty years before the cancer took her. Mabel loved to go for picnics on Sunday afternoons and take some poetry with her. Would read it out loud to the young'uns. Really had the voice for it, too."

Spike raised an eyebrow, mildly impressed. Six decades was a long time for a mere human couple. Not nearly as long as he'd been with Dru, of course, but you had to make allowances for their different lifespans.

"Drusilla and I take our picnics in the middle of the night," he commented diffidently. He didn't mention that their meals were usually gagged and bound to the nearest tree rather than packed neatly into a basket.

"She like to read poetry?"

Spike scratched the back of his head somewhat self-consciously.

"Nah, Dru likes it better when I read to her." The man looked at him curiously, as if re-evaluating his initial impression of the blond. He nodded back to the book Spike was holding.

"You should try that one. I bet she'd like it. The sonnets might seem a little stiff at first, but the passion is all there."

Spike considered the book for a moment. Elizabeth Barrett Browning was a little bread-and-butter for his current tastes, but Mum had liked her well enough. He could remember reading the poems to his mother when her cough had made it too difficult to go out. Gran had even met the lady once and walked away with a high opinion of her. It had taken a lot to impress his grandmother.

He flipped through the pages. The volume was already two decades old and its pages had a slight yellow tint to them, but they were still crisp and clean. No one had written on them. Spike read a couple of stanzas. He wasn't sure Dru would appreciate all the religious references, but those were to be expected in older poetry.

The old man was still looking at him.

"You treat your Drusilla right?" he asked suddenly.

Spike glanced up. He wasn't sure where this conversation was going.

"Yeah."

"That's good," the man said, nodding his head vigorously. "Should try to keep your lady happy. Keep the romance alive."

He paused.

"Tell you what. You can have that one for free."

Spike stared at the old man in shock.

"You're just gonna _give_ it to me?" he asked incredulously. In the century since he'd been turned, he couldn't remember anyone ever giving him a gift. As a vampire, you only got whatever you could take for yourself.

The man shrugged.

"Why not? Not enough young men these days willing to read to their girls. It'd make my Mabel happy to know there was someone out there who still appreciated Browning." He gestured toward the book. "Go on. It's yours."

 _Nothing is yours_ , a voice in his head reminded Spike. He hesitated.

"Besides," the shopkeeper continued with unexpectedly sly boldness, "it'll save you the trouble of stealing it."

His eyes twinkled just a bit, and Spike suddenly found himself liking the strange old man. He put his hand over his heart and made a show of mock offense.

"Don't know what you're getting at, mate." He reached over to the counter with an exaggerated movement, picked up a packet of mints from a display next to the register, and slipped it inside his vest in front of the man's eyes.

The old man just laughed.

"Go on, ya punk!" He shooed him toward the door. "Go give your girl some sugar while you're both still young enough to enjoy it!"

Spike gave the man an appreciative grin, tucked the book beneath his arm, and ducked out of the shop. He felt his stomach rumble as he looked out over the concourse.

 _Comes from staying up too late_ , he thought wryly.

He would have to find someone to snack on before returning to Drusilla. In the meantime, he hopped aboard the Number Four train and settled into an empty row, stretching his legs across the seats to the annoyance of several other passengers. He ignored them, opened his newfound treasure, and began to read.


	3. Prague

February 1997

Spike shifted the slight weight of his slim, shuddering girlfriend in his arms as he made his laborious way through the streets of Prague. He grimaced as Drusilla moaned piteously at the jostling.

"I'm so sorry, baby, but we're almost there, I promise." She whimpered in response.

They were heading to the small pied-a-terre that had been their home for the past two months. It was in the outskirts of the city in a private area where people tended to mind their own business. That was an important quality for vampires who routinely brought home guests that never reappeared again.

Of course, if they had been willing to live in a crypt like normal vampires, they would already have made it home. Spike had passed several cemeteries in the past few hours. But the graveyards in this part of Europe were typically crowded by underworld standards, and good crypts had to be guarded against intruders at all times. They just weren't worth it. Besides, most of them were too small to spruce up proper, and Drusilla needed space for all her pretty things. Nothing but the best for his princess.

 _Better off away from the cemeteries anyway,_ he reflected as he made his slow way down the street toward the river. _Bloody mob prob'ly hit those the moment we got away._ Not to mention any demon within a hundred mile radius would most likely turn them over to the humans given half a chance. They had brought unwanted attention to everyone else in the underworld as well.

They never should have come to Prague. True, since the lifting of the Iron Curtain it had developed the best nightlife of any city in the former Soviet bloc. Dru loved it for that reason. But after so many aggressively modernist regimes it was easy to forget that the Czechs had never quite lost their awareness of the supernatural world. Not only were there still a lot people willing to acknowledge the existence of vampires here, but there was also a long cultural memory of what to do with monsters who forgot their place and started causing trouble for the locals.

The whole sorry affair had started when Drusilla had set her sights on the son of a high-ranking city official. The handsome young man had been an inveterate womanizer, the darling of Prague. Dru had seen his picture in a tabloid and immediately wanted to play with him. She had even contemplated turning him. Spike had begun seething with jealousy every time his name came up. But still he helped her hunt the lout, unable to resist her pleading.

It had all been too public. They'd cornered the man in an opera house and Dru had seduced him away from his box. She'd had just finished draining him when they had been interrupted. The security tape had caught her in full vamp-face, blood trickling from her mouth as they fled the scene. City officials had tried to suppress the footage, as human governments always did, but they hadn't counted on the grieving father's connections. Within hours, the videotape had passed through less-savory channels and reached the public eye. By the time he and Drusilla had re-emerged to hunt again the following night, the citizens of Prague were up in arms, ready to deal with the undead menace the way their ancestors had always done.

They were spotted several blocks north of the Old Town Square and led the humans on an elaborate chase. The mob caught up with them at Charles Bridge, where the vampires made their stand. At first it had been fun, as having to fight for his existence always was. Spike had gotten a kick out of taunting the mortals, mocking their attempts to kill him with bullets. Even the more traditional weapons were rather funny. Who knew so many of these city folk actually _owned_ pitchforks? Since they'd all been metal, it hadn't really mattered.

But then they had brought out the torches. Spike kept them at bay for as long as he could and Dru had held her own. But she could only thrall so many at once, and a hysterical young woman had managed to light her dress on fire. Spike had abandoned his fight immediately, but it had taken him several frightening minutes before he could reach his beloved. Finally, he managed to grab the burning woman and jump into the Vltava, extinguishing the flames just before she reached the dusting point. He'd kept them both submerged, and let the river carry them far downstream before making his way to the opposite bank. Then he had wrapped his leather coat around his unconscious beloved and begun the arduous, secretive journey back to their hiding place.

They reached their dwelling just as the sky was beginning to turn gray. Spike could feel the prickle of approaching sunrise on the back of his neck as he kicked in the door. He set Drusilla gently on a small red sofa before hurriedly shutting the heavy drapes. Dru whimpered again, reaching for him. He knelt at her side and clasped her burnt hand in his own, kissing it gently.

"I'll be right back, luv," he promised. "Gonna get you cleaned right up."

"Daddy?" she whispered.

A stab of pain shot through his unbeating heart. It had been over nine decades since Angelus had left them, but Dru still cried for him from time to time. No matter that her "daddy" would have abandoned her to the mob on a night like tonight. Her sire had dug his fangs so deep into his beloved that she would never be entirely free from their residual poison.

"No, baby, it's Spike. I'm just gonna to run some water for you. It'll only take a minute."

She nodded.

There was a tiny bathroom in the back of the flat. Spike ran the tap on an old claw-foot iron tub and put the stopper in place. Then he crumpled onto the marble floor, buried his face in his hands, and sobbed hot tears as the tub began to fill with cold water.

He had nearly lost her this evening. His precious girl had nearly been reduced to dust. Spike tried to imagine an endless future without Drusilla in it and his stomach clenched painfully. He wasn't made to be alone.

 _But you're not alone, you great ponce_ , he upbraided himself. _Gotta keep it together. Now get off your worthless arse._ This was not the time to fall to pieces. Dru was in the other room and she needed him. He wiped his eyes and forced himself to his feet, turned off the tap, and went to fetch her.

The next few hours were the worst of Spike's unlife. He discovered that it was too difficult to separate Dru's dress from her burnt skin.

In the end, he had to bathe her fully clothed, letting the cold water loosen the fabric so he could finally remove it. He scrubbed her skin as gently as he could with the softest sponge he could find. It was a sign of how much pain Drusilla was in that she didn't resist his efforts with her usual fits but instead let him wash her with no more than a helpless whimper.

After finally getting her clean, Spike wrapped his beloved in a soft blanket and carried her up the iron staircase that led to the sleeping loft. He laid her on the low bed with its satin sheets and plush pillows. She grasped his shirt, refusing to let go.

He leaned in close to her. "Want me to read to you, pet?"

She gave a small nod and released him. Spike pulled a leather bag from beneath the bed and began rummaging through his small collection of books, settling on the volume he had been given twenty years earlier. He crawled into the bed and gently slid his right arm under her, holding her loosely enough not to aggravate her injuries. With his left hand, he held the book above her shuddering form and began to whisper softly.

 _My own Beloved, who has lifted me_

 _From this drear flat of earth where I was thrown,_

 _And, in betwixt the languid ringlets, blown_

 _A life-breath, till the forehead hopefully_

 _Shines out again, as all the angels see,_

 _Before thy saving kiss!_

Drusilla had no life-breath, and he rather doubted any angels had smiled upon her deed that night in London. His grand-sire probably didn't like it either, for different reasons. But her kiss upon his throat had saved him from dreariness just as Robert's love had transformed Elizabeth. He stared down at the fragile face of the woman who had rescued him from a mortal life of mediocrity and made him into a master of the night. Her eyes had begun to droop, exhausted from pain and a night of being prey rather than predator. He kissed her forehead softly and continued.

 _My own, my own,_

 _Who camest to me when the world was gone,_

 _And I who looked for only God, found_ thee!

Spike wasn't sure who he had been searching for that night that his world had shattered. He had just wanted to be something more than what he was, the laughing-stock of society. Just once, he had wanted someone to _see_ him-see and find him worthy. Drusilla had, and that had made all the difference that night so long ago.

He felt her nestle closer to him, already half sleep. He frowned. He had started reading the sonnets to Dru just a few months after he'd killed Nikki. He had been trying to no avail to calm one of her fiercer fits. She got like that occasionally, lost and fearful in her own mind, her pixies turning against her. Sometimes it was mild enough that he could comfort her by hurting her, the way Angelus always had. Other times, he let her pour out her pain upon him, accepting her torture as one of the few expressions of love she knew to how to give. But very occasionally, neither her pain nor his would be enough to give Drusilla peace. It was during one of those times that he'd tried reading her poetry. And to his surprise, it had worked.

He really hadn't expected his dark princess to appreciate _Sonnets from the Portuguese_. Browning was always going on about God and heaven and angels in her poems. Spike liked poetry of all sorts, so he didn't mind those lines so much. But he would never have anticipated that Dru, addicted as she was to ecstasies of torment, would like them as well.

Come to think of it, perhaps that was the point. His beloved hadn't always been in love with pain. That was what her daddy had done to her. Spike knew that there had been a time before Angelus, a time when she had once had real parents who cared for her. What Drusilla had given _him_ was a gift, but _her_ good life had been torn away from her with brutality. Maybe his princess liked pretending, if only for a little while, that she was still that pious little girl who knew her catechism by heart.

 _I find thee; I am safe, and strong, and glad._

Drusilla's eyes fluttered to a close. He set down the book for a moment and studied her, using his free hand to stroke her soft dark locks. It was up to him now to keep his beloved safe and strong. Later tonight, he would have to hunt for the both of them. She would need blood to heal. It would be months before she was well enough to move about, let alone make her own kills. He really needed to find a better place for her to recuperate.

Spike knew of several Hellmouths where she might be able to recover her former strength, but one in particular appealed to him. He'd heard there was a Slayer guarding the Hellmouth in California, one who was supposedly as good as Wood. Spike was skeptical. He'd never found anyone who could dance as well as Nikki. But it wouldn't hurt to see if the new chit was up to snuff. And laying another Slayer at Dru's feet would surely lift her spirits, help her recover faster.

His course decided, Spike picked up the book again and read the last lines to himself.

 _As one who stands in dewless asphodel,_

 _Looks backward on the tedious time he had_

 _In the upper life,-so I, with bosom-swell,_

 _Make witness, here, between the good and bad,_

 _That Love, as strong as Death, retrieves as well._

He closed the book and drew himself beneath the covers.

Love and Death. It always came back to those two things, didn't it? Dru's first act of love had been to kill him, retrieving him from the tedious upper life of the frilly cuffs and collars crowd. She'd brought him to a world where they were one and the same. Spike drew himself as close to her as he could, breathing in the intoxicating scent of his goddess.

He closed his eyes and let the exhaustion overtake him. Come nightfall, he would be back on the prowl, wrecking what vengeance he could on this sodding city for what it had done to his girl. But for now, the two of them slept away the daylight hours, two monsters clinging to one another in meadows of asphodel.


	4. Theft

March 1998

Spike swore as the sound of furniture crashing upstairs reached his ears. The din was followed by Drusilla's ecstatic shrieking mingled with Angelus' raucous laughter. Evidently the great git was having himself a grand old time with his stolen lover.

Spike kicked the stops on his wheelchair and rolled through the kitchen as quickly as he could. There was a small utility room in the back with heavy doors. It was the closest thing this sodding mansion had to a soundproof area. He wheeled himself in and twisted the dials on the ancient washing machine despite the lack of clothes inside. It wouldn't entirely drown out what was going on upstairs, but at least the loud cycle would muffle the sound of their lovemaking.

Lovemaking. What an ironic term. There was nothing loving about what was going on upstairs. Angelus was devouring his princess, same as he done to countless other victims. Only now he was devouring Drusilla a second time.

Spike hadn't realized that there was anything left for Angelus to steal from his girl. But apparently Dru still had one last little bit of her heart that had remained untouched by his poison. The bit that belonged to _him._ The small corner of her being that responded to gentleness and care. The part of her that he had nurtured steadily ever since he'd been turned. A few more weeks of this and that part of her would be gone forever, if it had not already been snuffed out.

For once, Spike found himself wishing the whore hadn't been dusted before he got to this sorry hellhole of a town. He hated the haughty bitch with every fiber of his being, but maybe if Darla was still around his grandsire would leave Dru alone.

Then again, maybe not. He had the Slayer to torment now and yet he still found time to fool around with Drusilla.

A muscle in Spike's jaw tightened as his memory filled with images of golden hair and green eyes and a wicked right hook. He shook his head, almost feeling sorry for the poor chit. He should have killed her when he had the chance. She deserved a better end than the one her ex had planned for her.

He could still hear Angelus' preening voice in his head.

 _"She's stronger than any Slayer you've ever faced. Force won't get it done. You've gotta work from the inside. To kill this girl...you have to love her."_

Bollocks. As if _he_ would know anything about either Slayers _or_ love.

Not that he wasn't right about the Slayer's strength. Spike had never seen anything like her. Of course, until now the wanker had never exactly treated the girl like the powerhouse she was. Wasn't it just brilliant that it had taken his grandsire losing his sniveling soul to suss out that his girl didn't really need him? And Angelus had the balls to call _him_ a slow learner.

At least Spike knew you didn't "work from the inside" with a bird like Buffy. That was just the wanker going about things the cowardly way he always did. Slayers were warriors of the highest order. If you weren't good enough to take them in clean battle then you went out in a blaze of glory. No shame in being dusted by a fighter of that caliber.

The sound of more furniture crashing brought Spike back into the harsh present. He gritted his teeth and reached beneath his seat for the small book he had slipped under the cushion. He cracked open the volume and tried to lose himself in Browning's world while his own came crashing down around him.

 _I see thine image through my tears tonight,_

 _And yet today I saw thee smiling. How_

 _Refer the cause?-Beloved, is it thou_

 _Or I, who makes me sad?_

It galled him that Dru was so giddy about the recent turn of events. Angelus hadn't been soul-free for five minutes before she'd gone running back to him. She was reveling in all the attention he was lavishing on her. But it wouldn't last. Her sire would tire of her once he'd gotten over the initial pleasure of playing for the dark side again. Then he'd be out looking for some new little lamb to torment.

She was shrieking again. Spike returned hurriedly to his reading.

 _Beloved, dost thou love? Or did I see all_

 _The glory as I dreamed, and fainted when_

 _Too vehement light dilated my ideal,_

 _For my soul's eyes? Will that light come again,_

 _As now these tears come-falling hot and real?_

A sick feeling twisted his stomach. Did Dru love him at all anymore? Had he already lost her completely? It hadn't been that long ago that he'd got offended at her attempts to feed him, annoyed by his own helplessness. Now he'd give anything for some small sign that she still gave a damn about him.

Hell, at this point, he'd even taken an attack. If she was through with him, she should just dust him and be done with it. Throw him outside and let the sunlight take him. Anything was better than being ignored. It'd be more merciful than leaving him here, chair-bound, while the family patriarch had his way with her in front of him.

The passion upstairs reached a crescendo. Or wait, _was_ that still passion? It sounded as if it had turned ugly. He could hear Dru sobbing and Angelus was muttering something too low for even Spike's ears. It sounded threatening. Suddenly, Drusilla let out a different sort of shriek.

"No, no, no, _no, no, NO, NO, **NO**!"_

Spike grimaced. That sounded like one of her fits. He could picture the scene as if it were right in front of him. Her whole body would be flailing. She'd be smacking her pillow or perhaps even Angelus himself. Heaven knew Spike had been on the receiving end of those tantrums often enough.

There was the sound of fist striking flesh, a blow too hard to have come from Drusilla.

"STUPID BITCH!" Angelus shouted.

A growl formed in the back of Spike's throat. The wanker was hurting her, and not in the way she liked. He felt his demon rise up inside him, clamoring to tear the older vampire to shreds. He would kill him. Rip his bloody throat out and drain him dry like he was a sodding human.

No. He'd do it slowly. Torturously. Give the sadist a taste of his own medicine. See how well all those lessons he'd given Spike so many years ago paid off.

But he couldn't do it right now. Spike flexed his legs. They were coming along as rapidly as could be expected given how little Angelus and his princess bothered to feed him. But it would be several more weeks before he would be in fighting shape again. Meanwhile, he would have to bide his time and keep himself from going crazy.

He redoubled his efforts to drown out the sounds coming from the master bedroom. After a short, desperate search, Spike produced an elegant pen from the inside of his duster. He pressed it to the page and forced himself to concentrate on forming his words. After a few minutes, he leaned back and surveyed his efforts.

Bollocks. Same worthless tripe he always produced. Maybe a little worse. He never wrote as well when his confidence was taking a hit, and Angelus was doing a right fine job of that.

"Taking care of dirty laundry, boyo?"a voice called from the doorway.

Spike stiffened. He'd been so absorbed in his thoughts that he hadn't noticed his grandsire sneaking up on him. Must've left Dru upstairs. Spike could still hear her wailing.

"Nah, just like it in here is all," he said sardonically. "Warm. Cozy. Good place to relax. Laundry rooms are underrated if you ask me."

"Is that so? Maybe Drusilla and I should try the place out, then," Angelus smirked at him. They had passed the point of double-speak several weeks ago and the older vampire had taken to more open taunts.

"Sounds like Dru has other plans, mate _."_ Spike couldn't quite keep the bitterness out of his tone.

"Yes, well, you know women. They never really know what they want." He leaned in closer, putting his hands on the armrests of the wheelchair. Spike forced himself not to look away, staring defiantly into his grandsire's eyes.

"For instance," Angelus continued slyly, "right now Dru's saying she wants someone to _read_ to her."

A stab of hope pierced through Spike. Maybe he hadn't lost her completely yet. The feeling was soon replaced with nausea, however, as he saw the look in Angelus' eyes.

"So I'm thinking," the older vampire continued, "maybe _you'd_ know something she'd like." He snatched the book from the younger vampire's hands. "Something like this, maybe?"

Enraged, Spike rammed his wheelchair into Angelus' leg, reaching desperately for his book.

"Oi! Give it here!" he yelled.

But Angelus just laughed and leapt out of the way. He retreated into the kitchen. Spike tried to give chase, but there were too many obstacles to maneuver around. His grandsire perched himself on the back staircase, just out of Spike's reach.

"Just what has our boy been reading to little Miss Dru these past few years?" Angelus opened the book to the ribbon-marked page, his face lighting with cruel delight when he saw Spike's scribbles. "Oh, and _writing_ to her as well! Let's give your words an airing, then."

Spike felt an all-too-familiar wave of shame sweep over him. Angelus straightened up, striking a self-important pose. He pretended to take a monocle from a make-believe pocket, screw primly it to his eye, and held the book with the air of one of William Pratt's social peers.

"Why, dear love, do you torment me so?" he read in a pompous voice. "For what heinous crime do I now pay? His eyes on you are like a blow, burning like the hottest beam of day." Spike closed his eyes in humiliation. He knew the poem had been terrible when he wrote it, but it sounded a thousand time's worse in his tormenter's mouth.

Angelus placed the ribbon back in the book with exaggerated care and closed it. Spike opened his eyes and glared at his grandsire with all the ferocity he could muster.

"Willy, my boy, it's good to see you haven't lost your touch. Still the same poet you've always been."

Spike's jaw hardened. "Yeah? Enjoy it while you can, mate. All those flowers and pictures you keep sending your old squeeze? If you don't start minding something beyond your own jewels, the Slayer's gonna kick them so hard you'll never shag another bird again, alive or dead!"

Something about the way Angelus' eyes slid away from his own piqued Spike's interest. Hmmm. That was interesting. Maybe the Slayer already _had_ kicked him in the balls. Good on her. Would explain why despite all his bravado he seemed reluctant to meet her face to face. Too bad she hadn't kicked him harder.

He wheeled as close to the stairs as he could and stared coldly up at Angelus. "You've had your fun now, mate. Now give it back." He reached out for the book again.

Angelus seemed to recover his swagger. He held the book just beyond Spike's grasp, taunting him.

"Now why would I do that?" he said innocently. "Drusilla wants her poetry. And I _really_ shouldn't keep her waiting."

Spike slammed his wheels into the bottom step repeatedly as the older vampire retreated up the stairs with a triumphant jeer on his face. He yelled every curse word in the English language-a few of which he made up on the spot-as Angelus disappeared from view. Then he let his entire body sag, his head resting against the wall.

The sound of Dru's giggle a few minutes later sealed his humiliation. His poetry usually went through dozens of redactions before he dared read it aloud to his beloved. The ditties he'd jotted down in the book were all raw, spur-of-the-moment ramblings. Most of them were not as rotten as that one, but he doubted anything that he'd written would survive Angelus' recital.

Spike rolled into the great room and stared at the heavy drapes covering the windows. It would be so easy to end it all. All he had to do was pull back the curtain. He fingered the fabric for a moment, tempted. He wondered how long he would feel the fire before he was no more than dust on the floor.

 _Should prob'ly take off the coat_ , he thought dully. No point in destroying Nikki's duster along with his sorry hide. He shrugged it off his shoulders. But as he looked at it for one last time, something inside him snapped.

He wasn't a Pratt anymore. This coat proved as much. He was a Slayer-killer. Not even Angelus could make that claim. And it'd be insulting to Nikki if the vamp who vanquished her just kicked it without a proper fight. He'd go out by one of her sister-Slayers or not at all.

He put the coat back on and considered his options carefully. He needed a plan. Normally he didn't have the patience to go through with them, but it's not like he was going anywhere in this bloody chair.

 _Think, dammit!_

He remembered the look on Angelus' face when he brought up the Slayer. The wanker was afraid of her. As well he should be, arrogant twat. Facing off with the little blonde chit had been Spike's greatest challenge to date. And while the chair was frustrating as hell, putting him in it had been a right fine piece of work on her part.

An idea began to take shape in Spike's mind. The Slayer had as much reason to want her ex dead as he did. And she could do it, provided he didn't throw her off her game by killing more of her little Scooby-gang. Spike could help with that. For the first time in several weeks, a smile that wasn't entirely bitter tugged at the corners of his mouth.

Maybe he could get his own back after all...


	5. Little Things

March 1999

Buffy curled herself underneath the covers of her bed and tried not to think about what might be going on across town. The trap was being set in motion. By the end of the night, they should be able to catch Faith in her lies and figure out what she knew about the Mayor and his ascension. She wished that knowledge could make her feel better.

It helped a little that she had followed Willow's advice and confronted Angel directly about the kiss she had seen Faith plant on his cheek. He had told her about their conversation, and the two of them had begun to piece together the evidence that Faith was no longer working for the White Hats. Then when she had gone to Giles to give him the information, Buffy had found him deep in conversation with his demon friend. Apparently the friend had been hired by the Mayor to remove Angel's soul.

The plan to use the situation to entrap Faith had been Buffy's idea. It made sense, really. They needed to figure out what was going on and Faith's interest in Angel was the perfect set-up. She had never met him as Angelus, so she wouldn't be able to tell when he was faking. And when it was over, Faith would be exposed and the Mayor's plan revealed.

So why couldn't Buffy shake her doubts?

She supposed part of it was that what she had told Willow was still true. Angel did have more in common with Faith than with her. She remembered briefly the sick feeling that had gnawed at her last year when she thought she had killed a man. She had felt it again when Faith had stabbed the Mayor's lackey. But that had to be nothing compared to what Faith felt, however much she tried to deny it. Angel understood that. He had a lot more deaths on his conscience than Faith.

Buffy tried to suppress the image of Jenny Calendar's face. That was the other reason this trap wasn't sitting well with her. Faith might have no memories of Angelus, but Buffy had plenty. And this this plan...well...

It was kind of a mind game, wasn't it? Sure, Faith deserved it. Buffy would love nothing more than to kick her skanky ass all the way back to the East Coast after everything she had done. And yet...she could remember the mind games Angelus had played with her all last spring. The roses. The drawings. Willow's dead fish. Ms. Calendar.

The fact that Angel had agreed so readily to pretend to be evil again made Buffy nervous. At Christmas, he had admitted to her that part of him wouldn't care about losing himself in her again. She had been too busy trying to save him from suicide that night to give his words any credence. But this thing with Faith made her wonder. Did he miss it? The freedom from guilt? The art of the kill? The careful creation of a web that would lure his prey to their doom? Was this just another kind of hunt?

Buffy threw off the covers and got up. She needed something to distract herself from her thoughts. Ordinarily she would just grab some weapons and head for patrol a little early. But the sun was nowhere near setting. Besides, she was supposed to be hiding out so that she wouldn't complicate Angel's plan or put him in a compromising position too soon. For now, she would have to settle for less Slayer-y distractions.

Her eyes fell on the small book sitting on her vanity. She picked it up and returned to her bed, curling her feet beneath her as she opened it to the title page.

Always, he'd written.

Mouthing the word to herself helped calm her jitters a bit. Angel would always love her, Buffy told herself firmly. She forced herself to recall their conversation the night he had given her the book. It had been an awful night. Love poetry had been the last thing on her mind. When he had questioned her, all the worries had come pouring out. But he had been so sweet in the face of her fears. Buffy closed her eyes, remembering his words.

"I saw you before you became the Slayer."

"What?"

"I watched you. I saw you called. It was a bright afternoon out in front of your school. You walked down the steps and...and I loved you."

"Why?"

"Because I could see your heart."

He stood up and walked slowly toward her.

"You held it before you for everyone to see. And I worried that it would be bruised or torn. More than anything in my life I wanted to keep it safe."

He was standing over her now, his eyes intense and melancholy.

"To warm it with my own."

She leaned in to snuggle against him.

"That's beautiful."

Of course, she'd ruined the moment by pointing out that if taken literally, it was also incredibly gross. But luckily he hadn't been offended. Buffy smiled to herself, tracing the word on the title page tenderly. No matter how doomed their relationship might appear to others, they would be alright. She just knew it. Because Angel had loved her at first sight. That was a sign of true love, right? They were destined to be together.

Buffy flipped through the pages, pouring over the nineteenth-century language. When Angel had first given her the book, she had commented that it was full of stuffy words for her to learn. But her snippiness hadn't really been directed at the book. It had been about her. Before becoming the Slayer, Buffy had been even more shallow than Cordelia. That night as her identity was called into question, she had been afraid of becoming that ditzy cheerleader again. The kind of girl who wasn't deep enough for poetry.

But defeating Kralik while powerless had given her back her nerve. In the weeks that followed, Buffy decided to take the book as Angel's vote of confidence in her maturity. She wouldn't let him down. She would prove that she was more than just Cordelia with some sweet kickboxing skills thrown in the mix.

So reading the Sonnets from the Portuguese had become a nightly ritual for her. She would crawl into bed after patrol, snuggle with Mr. Gordo, and try to make sense of the old-fashioned words. They sounded so different from her own California lingo, but gradually their elegance began to win her over. She still didn't get every line, but once she got the cadence down the poems became a little bit easier to understand. Whoever this Browning woman had been, she had obviously been deeply in love. Buffy wished she could express herself half as well. But what she really loved was that Angel had expressed his own feelings in the book. Practically every page had some sort of commentary.

Buffy frowned as she flipped through the book. The thing was, some of the comments really didn't sound like Angel. Her eyes paused on Sonnet 25, in which the poet described how the years before she met her beloved were filled with despair. Angel had written in the margins, "Too bloody right."

Okay, she got that he had spent a century dealing with depression before he met her, but the comment sounded really weird coming from Angel. The only people she knew who used the word "bloody" were Spike and occasionally Giles. Wesley probably also used it privately, but he wouldn't be caught dead dropping slang in front of Americans.

But Buffy had never heard Angel use a word like that. She knew he was Irish and wasn't exactly sure when he had lost his accent. Maybe it was later than she had thought. Maybe he still had it when he had first seen her in LA. But if that were the case, wouldn't there still be traces coming through in his speech? Wouldn't she have heard something like that drop out of his mouth before now?

And anyway, did Irish people even use that word? Buffy wasn't exactly an expert on accents. Ireland was close to England, right? It made sense that they would share some of the same slang. She had thought about asking Angel at one point, but she couldn't seem to find the courage for it. Besides, she suspected that if she asked something like that she might be subjected to a whole lecture on history and politics that she just didn't want to deal with right now.

She supposed Giles would be able to tell her, but Buffy didn't care to have her Watcher know about the poetry book. It might raise awkward questions about when Angel had first seen her. She could almost hear him cluck his tongue in disapproval at Angel's tale of seeing her on the steps of Hemery High. He would probably dislike that a vampire had been watching her from the shadows. He wouldn't get the romance of it all.

Anyway, she was probably overthinking it.

Buffy flipped through the pages some more, enjoying the little poems that Angel had jotted down in the margins. Some of them were written in Latin and French. One day when she was feeling less shy about the whole thing she would get Willow to help her translate those. But there were enough written in English for her to enjoy even now. They were mostly short and sweet, and they usually had something to do with whatever Browning was saying.

For instance, Browning's first sonnet was about how a mysterious superpower had grabbed hold of her. The end of it read,

And a voice said in mastery, while I strove,-

"Guess now who holds thee!"-"Death" I said.

But there

The silver answer rang,-"Not Death, but Love."

In response to this image, Angel had written,

So suddenly did my goddess seize

My shadow-life in deathless grip

Reborn, remodeled, remade to please

And dance forever at her hip.

Buffy smiled as she read the words. He was so sweet, calling her a goddess. And the image fit them so perfectly! As Slayer, she represented death to him. She remembered the night she had discovered what he was. He had wanted her to kill him. But instead she had fallen in love. And okay, she hadn't deliberately set out to "remake" him, but his story of seeing her at Hemery had basically been about him leaving behind his "shadow-life."

She turned a few more pages, stopping when she came to Sonnet 8. This one made her grin because Angel had apparently disagreed strongly with Browning's sentiment. The sonnet was all about how she didn't have anything to give to her beloved that was worthy of the gifts he had given her. In response to it, Angel had written that he was "NOT a pauper!" Below the sonnet was one of his longer poems:

What desirest thou, my moonlit queen

To crown thy raven hair?

A comb I'll bring, all silver-sheen

For my lady-love to wear.

And what for your robe, my dearest sweet?

Satin or lace or silk?

Ribbons and pleats I'll lay at your feet

And linens white as milk.

By what fair tribute or jewels of note

Shall I my lady woo?

Pendants and pearls for her pretty throat

And rubies and sapphires too!

It was so cute! And Angel totally did love giving her gifts. He'd given her the cross and the Claddagh ring. The ring had been especially meaningful because it was part of his heritage and represented their love. She frowned, suddenly remembering that Scott Hope had given her the same thing. Meaningful, but not rare, she amended. Oh well. It wasn't like she needed actual rubies and sapphires.

Buffy read through the poem again, for sheer pleasure. The phrase "raven hair" stuck out sort of strangely. She twirled a strand of her own blonde locks around her finger. You didn't have to be a bird watcher to know that ravens were black. The image of Faith's long dark hair flitted through Buffy's mind. She shook her head, not wanting to think about the fact that her sultry sister-Slayer was currently trying to seduce her boyfriend. She shouldn't read too much into the wording. Angel probably wasn't trying to be literal. Maybe that was just the sort of imagery that came naturally to a vampire. It probably explained the throat comment as well.

Slowly Buffy read through the rest of the poems. There was one toward the end that still boggled her mind. It was connected to Browning's last poem, Sonnet 44. The original poem was all about exchanging flowers and keeping them safe as symbols of shared love. But beneath it Angel had written something more obscure:

Once I danced in fields of daisies

Bedazzled by sweet baby's breath

Purple heather was my pillow

My comrades striped carnations

And sunny chrysanthemum.

But nestled in softest shade

I found the calla and the crocus

Framed by ferns and forget-me-nots

'Twixt plum tulips and tuberose

And night-blooming jasmine.

Now I dwell in balsam bowers

Of gold daffodil and delphinium

Guarded by great gladiolus;

Secreted in this sanctuary springs

The red rose and snapdragon.

Buffy hadn't realized that Angel knew so much about flowers. Half of them she had only ever heard of in passing. What exactly was gladiolus? Was she supposed to know them all? Was this some sort of elaborate metaphor? Maybe she should take some poetry classes when she started college in the fall.

She turned the page and savored the last poem. It was written on the extra leaves that sometimes come at the end of books. It was so long that he had been forced to finish it on the inside of the back cover. But it was so sweet and sensual. It turned something simple and ordinary into pure magic. One day she would work up the courage to talk to him about it. But for now she just read and dreamed.

As she finished, Buffy noticed that one small corner of the paper had come unglued from the back cover. There was something stuck between the sheet and the cardboard. She pulled it out. It was a slip of paper folded up so tiny that she probably could have read the book a dozen more times without noticing it. She unfolded it carefully. It was another poem, one that didn't fit with the style of the book at all.

Bad Dog growls

Cruel Kitty meows

Hiss and bark

Caper and carp

Till Sweet Kitty purrs

And they rub furs

Nose nuzzling nose

In comfortable pose

Then Dear Kitty prances

While Bad Dog prowls;

At Moon-Kitty's glances

Her happy hound howls!

Buffy stared at the poem for a moment, then broke out into hysterical laughter. What the hell, Angel? She scolded him mentally. Where did THAT come from?

She was used to a broody, melancholy boyfriend. She didn't imagine Angel had ever intended for her to find this poem. He had probably stuck it there sometime in the past and had completely forgotten about it when he gave her the book. It was fun and flirty and kind of naughty. Nothing like the vampire she knew. At least not the souled version. Did Angel have a lighthearted side that wasn't evil? A nervous hum trilled through her stomach. It would be so nice to share something like this with him. But the only time she could remember him being this cheerful had been when he had been trying to kill her. And that wasn't him.

Buffy closed the book. Even aside from the flirty poem, it seemed strange that someone as close-mouthed as Angel could be so wordy in writing. Willow had called him taciturn. To be honest, the only part of the book that sounded like her boyfriend was the message on the title page. She opened the book again and traced the word one more time, drawing strength from the reassurance it gave her. Always.

Buffy entered the mansion slowly, her eyes on the shadowy form sitting on the floor. His cruel and arrogant demeanor was gone, melted away into the brooding soul she knew so well. Angel looked up at her approach.

"How you are doing?" he asked.

"Been better."

That was the understatement of the year. The past few days felt like someone had turned her world upside down, given it a shake, and then set it back as if nothing had changed.

"Not hard to believe. You were a real soldier last night, Buffy." He stood up.

"That's me," she said ruefully. "One of the troops."

"I know how hard it was for you."

"I really doubt that," she replied, unable to meet his eyes. It wasn't fair to let him see how upsetting last night's events had been. She couldn't blame him for everything going according to plan.

"If there's anything I can do to make it better..."

Buffy dug her nails into her palms, trying to steady herself. She wished she could forget the look in his eyes as he had pretended to cuff her.

"Morning, sleepyhead. You know what I just can't believe? All our time together and we never tried chains."

She forced the image away. He was acting, she reminded herself. It was all just an act. That was what she had told Xander. Because it was the truth. Even if at the time, she had known that her body was giving away all her fear. She hadn't quite resisted the urge to double-check the cuffs and make sure he hadn't really locked them. It was a little bit ironic. Their plan had been based on Faith not being able to know when Angel was faking evil, but by the end of it Buffy wasn't sure she could tell the difference. She took a deep breath before continuing.

"Look, I know you only did what I asked. And we-we got what we wanted..."

Angel shook his head, his eyes downcast. "I never wanted it to go that far."

"I know that," she reassured him quickly. "It's not even a question of that."

And it wasn't. Not really. She knew Angel would never intentionally betray her to Faith. Angelus would, but he wasn't Angel. If he had proven to be completely convincing during their little drama, it was just because he was such a good actor. There was no other possibility.

"It's just-after the-" The words didn't want to come. Breathe, she told herself. She looked up into Angel's pensive face. "I need a little bit of a break."

A wounded look came into his eyes. He swallowed and looked away. Buffy forced herself to stand firm. But she couldn't help softening the blow a bit. Her own heart was hurting too much.

"Please?" she asked softly.

He gave an almost imperceptible nod. She turned and began walking away. His voice called out after her.

"Are you still my girl?"

She knew he could hear her heart pounding. She looked back and gave him the bravest smile she could muster.

"Always."

Then she walked out of the mansion, desperately hoping she had told the truth.


End file.
